


Ten Thousand Hours

by QuietlyImplode



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Based on a Tumblr Post, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Natasha Romanov, I can't write fluff but I tried, Implied/Referenced Torture, Natasha Romanov Needs a Hug, Tumblr Ask Box Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:07:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27600452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuietlyImplode/pseuds/QuietlyImplode
Summary: Tumblr prompt: "Do that again and you'll regret it." and the request of angst + fluff got turned into.... this. Sorry, not sorry.__"Do that again and you'll regret it," Clint spits out, blood dripping down his chin, out of his split lip."Clint. Stop." comes a harsh breath of response.The man in the corner laughs. "Listen to her, young man. You're just making it worse."
Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 12
Kudos: 57





	Ten Thousand Hours

**Author's Note:**

  * For [agentsofpuppies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/agentsofpuppies/gifts).



> For AgentsofPuppies. I'm sorry I tried to write fluff.. it came out as this. 
> 
> Send me prompts if you want over on tumblr; they'll come out as incoherent as this.

"Do that again and you'll regret it," Clint spits out, blood dripping down his chin, out of his split lip. 

"Clint. Stop." comes a harsh breath of response. 

The man in the corner laughs. "Listen to her, young man. You're just making it worse." 

The goon standing in front of Clint, bends over and puts both hands on his shoulders. Clint stares into his Anglo-Saxon face, and throws his head back and forward, head butting him as hard as he can. Concussion be damned, this is worth it. 

Stumbling back, the man grunts; shaking his head and then moves over to where Natasha is tied up; mirroring Clint with her arms tied behind her back and feet cuffed to the legs of the chair. He backhands her hard, across her face, hard enough that it echoes throughout the room and she can't hold back a grunt of pain. 

The man in the corner stands, brushes off his three piece suit and laughs. "Don't get too close there, Pieter; that one is your own fault." He moves towards the door and motions to the man. "You've got ten minutes," he commands,"and then we must leave, try and leave at least one of them alive."

He looks up at the red mark now forming where Clint head butted him; smiling he rolls his eyes. "Idiot." he mutters, leaving the room.  
.

They're in the quinjet laying down, the team buzzing around them. He's hooked up to an IV on one side and holding her good hand with the other. She's worse than he is and he's insisted they work on her first. 

She's fading in and out but always manages to catch his eye; relief evident every time to see him there. He's worried that she can't keep her eyes focussed, that the blows to the head are more than just a concussion. Her arm.. will need surgery. They'd taken one look at her and conceded quickly, removing any cuffs and restraints off of both of them simultaneously, but concentrating medical on her, moving her gently, slowly. Clint tries to describe what happened, tries to convey the urgency of needing antivirals, antibiotics and anything else he can think of. 

Their captors are long gone, but the results from their interrogation are front and present. For two operatives that can't deal with medical, their compliance is worrying. 

Peeling Clint's shirt away from his body makes him cringe, he allows them to cut the rest of it away and closes his eyes as they touch his skin with gloved hands. Groans when they press too hard on damaged ribs. 

"You ok?" comes a known voice. 

Struggling to open his eyes, he nods. And then wishes he didn't, nauseousness invading all his senses; taking all of him to push it back. He concentrates on his hand holding onto Natasha, the skin on skin contact; rather than how he is really feeling. 

He hears calls to sedate her, and is glad for it. She doesn't need to be awake for the procedures that need to occur.  
.

He's staring intently at the board. She beat him last time, but only just. Sometimes he can hold his own against her.

Her broken elbow and hand is healing, only in a splint now and the hand therapist had advised to work on straightening it and holding it. She's suggested chess, and they'd agreed. The left of field suggestions is why they'd kept going back to her. The game, in it's infancy, progresses slowly, knights are taken, pawns are sacrificed. She corners his king and calls for check, one of the few words she's spoken lately. She grins up at him as he moves his king away, apparently right into her trap. 

"Check mate." she says with finality, moving her queen into place, holding her arm straight. She looks to where he's staring. 

"Oh." she stutters out. "That's good?" 

He laughs at her understatement. "That's great, Nat!"  
.

They're laying in bed together, hand touching, he runs fingers up and down her scars on her hand and arm. 

"You ok?" he asks. 

"I wish they were dead." she confides. 

"Me too," he whispers. 

The TV talks in the background and he can hear her breath catch. He doesn't chance a look at her face, just grips her fingers tight.

"I got you." Clint says quietly. 

"We'll get them." he promises.  
.

The last 13 months has been solely to get to this point. They've been given leeway by the department to do their own thing, play their own games and the culmination has gotten them to this. Recovery, planning, scouting, sweat, tears and vindication. This interaction of him looking down the sniper scope trained on the monobrow of The Man in the 3 Piece Suit; the goon squad taken out methodically, and quietly.

She's in disguise, passing him classified documents that are nothing but a shell game, he wont have long enough on this earth to even look through them. He is, they've learned the second biggest drug dealer in Miami, looking to expand and take out the competition. Natasha gives the signal of 'shoot' and he lines it up carefully, not a kill shot, but disablement, straight through the spine. 

The kill shot is for her.  
.

There's a change almost immediately. He doesn't think it's a facade, and feels that he can tell the difference. 

She takes him out for dinner, wearing his jacket (it looks better on her anyway), and freely holds onto his hand. She picks out what they're having and clinks glasses with him and winks with a knowing smile. They share meals and afterwards he takes her for ice cream. 

He can't stop smiling, and neither can she. 

"Good day?" they get asked after ordering their favourites. 

"The best one in a while," Natasha responds, holding her ice cream to her lips and levelling eye contact with Clint. 

He bursts out laughing as they walk down the promenade to their hotel. "You're an idiot," he grins, pressing a kiss into her hair. 

"Yeah, but you love me anyway." She responds, swapping her ice-cream for his.  
.


End file.
